Cobblestone Streets
by mbabson
Summary: He carried this kind of lone wolf vibe of superiority that only complemented the rich kid stereotype. He had this dangerous powerful energy about him, too. He was like a hot coal, burning heat still clinging to the embers of his soul; all you had to do was feed the fire and flames would erupt in a deadly inferno that would consume you and leave you ashes on the floor. One-Shot.


**A/N: Hallo! It's been awhile since I've done anything on here, so I suppose I'll post this. This is an assignment that I got for school a few weeks ago. It's supposed to be a descriptive piece on anything or anyone and since I do have an upcoming story in the Soul Eater category (It's taken me three months to finish twelve chapters, so it could be quite awhile until it's finished) I decided to describe Death the Kid! A few things have been changed about him to fit my liking, but other than that I believe it's pretty accurate. The end may be a bit confusing to some, but I'll explain it in the ending's A/N. So read on!**

Everything about the boy was prim and proper, smooth and symmetrical. The shoes he wore were shined, his suit looking new, crisp and pressed. His hair was combed neatly and he had an air of serenity about him.

The boy was short, but appeared taller than he was due to his slender features and skinny frame. He wore a black suit tailored to his stature. Pristine white square swathes of fabric were sewn around the shoulders and the hems of the suit. A grey cartoonish skeleton was hung like a brooch around his neck. He wore black, shiny dress shoes that clattered against the ground rhythmically as he walked.

One look told you he had come from a fountain of never ending wealth. I wondered what it was like to have everything fed to you on a platinum plate.

He was incredibly pale, as though the sun had never tasted his ivory skin. The white contrasted greatly against his ebony hair and the clothing he wore.

Fringes of his hair fell into his eyes crookedly, and the back of it stuck out neatly at the nape of his neck, causing it to appear rather like a duck's tail. Three perfectly aligned, perfectly white stripes interrupted the pure black of his hair. They stretched across the left side of his head and only encompassed half of his head. From experience, I knew his hair hated to cooperate, and refused to change, even in death.

His eyes seeped a false identity of a calm composure. They revealed two shades of gold unknown to man. His black pupil was ringed with a fair golden, and the outside a darker flaxen hue.

Not only was he rich, but attractive as well.

His face was relaxed and he had an eternal calm with him wherever he went and with whatever he did. He never winced, never did anything without grace. He moved slowly, deliberately, always alert and aware. His eyes bled with wisdom and experience, and never would you guess that this person was only in his early teens. In fact, he seemed in a state of permanent developmental arrest, as though his mind had aged but was imprisoned in the body of a teenager.

He had hit the jackpot, smart, attractive, and rich. No wonder he had so many enemies. Including myself.

He carried this kind of lone wolf vibe of superiority that only complemented the rich kid stereotype. He had this dangerous powerful energy about him, too. He was like a hot coal, burning heat still clinging to the embers of his soul; all you had to do was feed the fire and flames would erupt in a deadly inferno that would consume you and leave you ashes on the floor.

And yet, this ember was containing himself, as though he knew his own power but wanted to hide it. At first, it appeared as a strategy, to act like a whimpering baby to get inside the enemy's head and wipe them out.

On second glance, the true reason revealed itself. No one could ever mistake this person for a child. No, the flame he carried with him had burned him, making him into a stoic figure, determined not to show emotion.

Even as he rested the barrel of his gun against my temple and pulled the trigger, his face was relaxed and coldly removed, and he did not flinch.

It was disappointing, really. Ah, well. I could always try again.

The smell of gunpowder still hung in the autumn air as the boy turned smoothly, leaving someone else to take care of the body lying on the cold cobblestone street.

**Hello again! As promised, here is your explanation. The story is told from the point of view of an evil person who is dead but came back in spirit. This evil person can possess people's bodies. Kid shot the person the evil guy/girl was possessing, not knowing that this would only kill the host and not the spirit. So, the spirit is still alive and pissed. If you want to make this into a proper story, go ahead, but my only condition is is that you tell me first and I get to see the final project. If you really want me to make this into a story, let me know in the reviews or PM me or something. Anyway, review and lemme know what you think! Happy Thanksgiving, all (to the Americans) and happy holidays to everyone else!**


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